Lenten Lilly Lambellini

It’s the Spring Equinox today and I’m in a little village in Cornwall where the sun is shining bright on the fields of daffodils that are suddenly everywhere. I’m in the midst of a great sea voyage and I’m reading old journals from sailors who were at the edge of the world once. Their drawings and writings are full of wonder and creativity and adventure. I would hope the journal of my life would be full of that too. And not the kind of record that exists only on paper. But the kind that’s left behind in the lives of the people I meet and the places I visit and the work I do and the meals I cook. From the smallest moments to the biggest.

How does one make an art out of living anyway? And I’m not talking about some kind of Kinfolk manifesto filled with linen napkins, as nice as they are. I mean the kind of life that illuminates the love that’s at the heart of all creation. A romance with small beautiful miracles every day. Like the daffodils outside my window. And the love of a man who comes to my door with a gift inspired by these golden trumpets of goodness. See below…

This beautiful metal flower was created by the Cornish blacksmith Tristan Kessell. While I was looking for a Lebanese inspired lamb recipe for the evenings meal, he was in his forge making this beautiful piece or work. And if this is a journal about Food and Art…well what could be a better combination. So here is my little attempt to bring words and image to this beautiful evening spent cooking together and talking about daffodils.

On of this flower’s many names is “Narcissus”, which speaks to the Greek myth of a young beautiful man who fell in love with his own reflection. So obsessed with the image he saw on the surface of the water he forgot to eat, or drink or even look up. He was entranced and imprisoned by his own desire and illusion that eventually he wasted away till nothing but a flower of him remained.

The other name for the daffodil is “Lenten Lily”. I love this name. And even more the name of “Easter Bell”. It’s a timely reminder for me of what’s to come. Migratory songbirds are arriving to build their nests and the black branches of winter are beginning to bud again. It is a season of preparation and hope. A season of resurrection where we’re invited to tend to the soil of our hearts as well as the earth. Spring is blooming in all its fullness and glory and I want to attend to it in anyway I can.

As I look at the down-turned head of the daffodil, in both green and in metal, I ask my heart these questions…

”What are I looking down at?” Am I entranced or awake? Am I stuck eating pomegranate seeds in the underworld or am I being born again?

I’m not sure what the answers are exactly…perhaps the questions are enough for now. After all, if this is a season of preparation, then maybe we’re not meant to know all the answers or arrive anywhere at all. We’re just meant to begin.

So as you build your nest and tend to your soil…here is the most delicious Lamb and White Bean Stew for those cold nights at the beginning of everything.

Oh and after all your lamb and beans are gone…the sauce left makes the best soup. May it keep you warm on your journey to the edge of the world. Don’t forget to look up!

Saint Brigid Feast with Roses!

Last night was February 1st, the feast day of Saint Brigid. A painting of her, being carried by two angels, hangs over my bed. I first discovered this masterpiece by John Duncan at the National Gallery of Scotland in 2022 on the final day of our Baby Bushka tour. It so moved me that I spent a ridiculous amount of money percuring the largest size print of it I could find and having it framed. I wake up every morning to the hot pink and gold tipped wings of those angels, flying Brigid (St Bride) over the ocean, accompanied by a seal and two seagulls.

For the last couple years, I’ve been making a point to celebrate this feast day and have spent countless hours learning about the many traditional customs and stories, both Christian and Pagan, associated with this special day. Together they weave a rich tapestry of symbolism and imagining that has only enriched my experience of it. It’s a time of wombing, of milk, of hope in dark winter, a pregnant earth full of possibility and the promise of spring to come. Along with these deep dance movements of nature is the extraordinary life of Saint Brigid and her many magical miracles.

“There is plenty to learn from St Brigid. The Vita tells us that even the wolves of the forest loved her, and the wild ducks ‘flew on feathered wings to her, without any fear’, after which ‘she praised highly the Creator of all things, to whom all life is subject, and for whose service … all life is given.’ So in tune with Creation was Brigid, in fact, that she could hang her cloak on a sunbeam and cause trees to move through prayer. Anything she ever found herself in possession of was given away to the poorest of the poor.” - Paul Kingsnorth

Something about dandelions. I’m reminded of the Bloomsbury breakfast I made two years ago. Yesterday, however, was all about the Irish recipes associated with Saint Brigid’s day. I spent the morning collecting stories, prayers, songs and images of Brigid and then tried my hand at a few recipes. The first being a Saint Brigid oatcake and a very traditional Colcannon that I couldn’t help but add a trinity of garlic cloves to. That evening I was joined by artist April Rose and her daughter Dusty to feast and pray! It was a joy to sit on the floor at Kalabash after a long day of music making and celebrate together. Caught on camera below is the little packet I made of paintings, stories, prayers and recipes for Saint Brigid. I gift it to you here.

Saint Brigid.

You were a woman of peace.

You brought harmony where there was conflict.

You brought light to the darkness.

You brought hope to the downcast.

May the mantle of your peace cover those who are troubled and anxious, and may peace be firmly rooted in our hearts and in our world.

Inspire us to act justly and to reverence all God has made.

Brigid you were a voice for the wounded and the weary.

Strengthen what is weak within us.

Calm us into a quietness that heals and listens.

May we grow each day into greater wholeness in mind, body and spirit.

Amen.

La bohème - A Charles Aznavour Birthday

In keeping with tradition, we gathered for another highly themed evening of masquerading, feasting, dancing and singing. This night centered around a character performance I prepared as Charles Aznavour. I spend 10 days, memorizing his beautiful song La bohème. I brushed up on my French with the help of my friend Laurie and slapped on a ridiculous amount of gel into my hair.

The invitation read

Bonjour!

Je voudrais vous inviter à ma fête d'anniversaire. Venez vous transformer en un célèbre artiste français avec une bouteille de vin à la main et quelque chose de votre travail à partager. C’est peut-être un poème, une danse, une chanson ou une peinture. S'il vous plaît, ne venez pas comme vous-même.

Si vous n’avez ni intérêt ni temps pour vous consacrer à cette expérience, restez chez vous. Je t'aimerai toujours.

Avec des baisers d'escargot, Charlie

What ensued was a beautiful memory dream of an evening. Here is a video that captures the magic of the night so perfectly and my performance of Charles Aznavour’s legendary song, featuring Pilar Moreno, Ed Kornhauser and Batya MacAdam-Somer. Opening montage soundtrack by Danny Gutierrez (Satie)

Special thank you to Evan Schell for capturing the memories so sweetly. I’m also pleased to share another brilliant poetic performance by Jesus Gonzalez, who was in disguise as Debussy for the night, featuring Mat Rakers on piano.



Gothic Feast for Poetic Hearts

I think one of the most beautiful things in the world is a long table.

It seems so simple…so small…”a long table”…but don’t let that fool you.

It is ancient, it is healing…it is rare in these modern days of isolation…and because of that… it is vital. It also takes time. Like all good things…it takes time.

To seat 30 people on a dressed table, using real china, and metal cutlery and home cooked food is a heroic and communal task, one that cannot be accomplished in isolation but requires the works and days of many hands. A true labor of love that takes time to prepare for and time to recover from.

And indeed there will be time…as I prepare to wash my forth load of dishes. I imagine T.S. Eliot asking me an overwhelming question like “Was it worth it after all? After the cups, after the tabouli after the curry that trails along the floor and this and so much more?”

And me, as if throwing off a shawl and turning toward the window…I should say “Yes”. With my whole heart I would say, “Yes”

I tried to treasure the final minutes of my 36th year as best I could. I went to sleep on Saturday night, contemplating my life thus far and wondering what this next year would hold. Do I dare? and…Do I Dare? I grow old…I grow old…

I awoke with a kiss on my forehead and a stained glass window on my front door. A phone call from Mom and Rachel. My neighbors came by to help me clean and fix the furniture, Sean squeezed lemons, crushed garlic and mixed about 10 pounds of hummus and a vat of toum that could raise the dead. Talia, ground the spices and cooked two delectable Pakistani’s curries (one chicken and one lamb) And I chopped 24 parsleys for the largest bowl of Tabouli I have ever made, and thought of my father. (Tabouli…is a poem of love.)

But amoung all the chopping and cleaning and stirring there was laughter, there were stories, there were gazes across the room, there were hugs and smiles and cookie crumbs. It was glorious.

Soon the hours turned to minutes as the final rush to prepare the table began. Faces I love started strolling in, dressed in coats and ties, wedding dresses, top hats, wigs and black eyes. Beautiful friends. The fire was stoked the candles were lit the bowls were sent out and we feasted together.

There is something about the meal…that makes the after party so much better. Drunk off spices and leaves, fruits and curried meats, wine and poetry being yelled across the table….that takes time. Time to prepare…but time to eat. We took time to sit and share. Hands crossing, sending, lifting and dropping, clapping and writing. Here are two poems we collectively wrote around the table.

Exquisite Corpse Poem #1

Down cobblestones through cinder and soot,

The weight of the dark weakens my heart

The sight of your eyes quivers my thighs

The height of your hair gets me down there

Your claw caught my eye

Instead, the best thing was to have cranberry pie,

The fruit of her loins was cranberry pie, 

And she filled the cup with the juice of her thys

Her neck a flock of sheep, her nose a crooked carrot

Cold and round it begs our gaze

Why lean so far for a sight?

You may fall from a cliff

Was it worth the view?

I wondered, tumbling down, down, down, down the edge of the abyss

If I would live a full life ever again

I’d wake up a happy man, life my dear friend to great each day

The curtains breathe as the wind says hello

And a knock on the door guides me to say

Which way? And in which movement do we play?

Whether in earth with worms or in sky with fowl 

No direction!

Aimless in these feet in these hands in these eyes

Looking up on the vastness of it all and contemplating 

Square salty crusty auspiciousness of the sounds being emitted…

Nevertheless, I shall trudge no more, but instead lay here in the leaves and grass and slowly return to the foamy soil of the earth

Worms worms i am soil that turned into dirt. 

Exquisite Corpse Poetry #2

On the night which sits so deeply

I sit oh so deeply

To uncover a lie brought to this very table

Rife with scandal and dubious declaration

The men at the party took off their clothes

Silvery moonlight shimmered on their cheekbones

Reminding me of the days when life was younger and more pure

Purity though, I reazlie was overrated, all I want is chaos

Chaos through the stratosphere exploding into universes 

Energy is all energy!!!

VIBING

I remember dancing silently…

Smelling the sweet aromas in the air

Harvesting wild strawberries to share

Hands soaked in red juice, stained with the wildness and acrid juice

Maroon handprints on your naked flesh

Which take time to dry

But we should not rush through life

Jump with joy, and catch that rainbow and ride it to the end

So when you reach the end. You know it’s the end.

And finally let me share this exquisite poem that Jesus Gonzalez composed on the spot standing around the table looking at the early materials that made up our evening…I will never forget after he read this poem out loud on the table my neighbor Saki looked at me and said sincerely “Everything he said was true…everything. It’s true”

Here is Jesus’s poem. Read it and know that’s it’s true.




A Mary Shelley Brunch (and a cake for lost creatures)

It’s the end of summer and while it’s not technically yet fall…I have already begun my deep dive into the chilling and blood curdling world of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. The cosmic crumb that led me here was walking into our local bookstores Libelula. The book: Mary Who Wrote Frankenstein by Linda Bailey. Then a flash of memory came…I remember Nina and how she had the last page of Frankenstein pinned to her wall. Her roommate told me how she went to read the book but the last page was gone and how Nina told her it had been “re-homed”

I loved this and I wondered what it was about Frankenstein that Nina loved so much to rip the last page out and pin it to her wall.

I was intrigued. And my next thought of course was…would this make a good Kalabash play? For older kids, probably, yes…hmmmm…okay….let’s do it!

So I got a copy of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I watched the biopic of her life in the bath, I enjoyed the 1994 Frankenstein featuring Helena Bonham-Carter while doing dishes…and now in these last few days of August, I have celebrated her birthday with neighbors and friends. We lit the candles, said goodbye to summer…ate and sang and not a single crumb was left for September.

The menu was made up of

  • Shephard’s Breakfast (recipe here)

  • And a berry summer cake (in honor of the berries that the monster survives off of while hiding from humanity in the forest and listening to the bird song.)

  • And my own creation of a Kale Salad (because Mary Shelley loved Kale)

My Mary Shelley Kale Salad:

You will need a bouquet of Dino Kale, 1 Lemon, A handful of cherry tomatoes, a teaspoon of English or Dijon mustard, olive oil, salt and pepper. Quickly blanch the kale in a pot of hot water, take it out after 30 seconds or so and rinse in cool water, chop the tomatoes, and mix up the dressing (lemon, oil, mustard, salt and pepper) Toss it all together and voila!

Dinner with WILD HORSES

Last fall I connected with Natasha Khan of Bat for Lashes and it was instant magic. There were so many things we shared that felt kismet and we quickly began to collaborate. It began with a moon shaped hat and ended in a full scale theatre production of her play Cosmia with the kids of Kalabash. In between, there were some lovely evenings spent drinking wine and sharing a meal. The most memorable for me being a lovely baked garlic and lemon fish done inside aluminum boats with roasted potatoes and fresh salad that Natasha made for us. We munched good cheese and bread, drank white wine and spoke out loud a great many dreams.

Natasha shares many recipes of her own through her Patreon, a lovely cosmic space of sharing.

Winter Solstice Folk Feast: a light in the dark

In those dark winter nights of the pandemic I travelled to Basilio and Maria’s home where we lit a fire. In exchange for the folk tales I would read them, they would feed me dinner. This beautiful tradition came to a peak when we celebrated the Winter Solstice. I baked a sun shaped pie in honor of the return of light. We dressed up like winter creatures. I build the tallest little Christmas gnome hat. And we sang the Beatles.