Weather clings to the mountains tightly in the Appalachians. I've gotten used to the way that the fog billows around in the clouds like little white wisps of ghosts of spring rains past and linger for hours afterwards. One time, I was sitting beneath a rock oak and writing in the midst of one of these fogs, hoping my thoughts would linger and whisper in the same way, when suddenly, some ancient sense heard the breaking of a twig or was triggered by the soft brush of wing-tip over stone and I whirled around to a cluck and a drum before the large male gobbler that almost stepped on me in the stillness bolted off into the mist.
I became intimately familiar with that mist and rain. Last week, we were supposed to float the West Branch of the Susquehanna River for three days to kick off a ten day Outdoor Leadership course, but the night before as I lay in my tent in Rothrock State Forest and listened to the rain pitter-pattering away on my rain cover, my native intelligence that knows big rivers knew it was going to be blown out.
We ended up canoeing more Stillwater, a place where that same native intelligence feels like a mountain dweller that's been dropped square in the middle of a desert, all as a prelude to another week afterwards of mountain biking, rafting white-water, climbing, and my personal favorite, caving. I've written more about my time in this course, and may or may not post it, but to summarize, it was a beautiful time where feelings of blessedness came easy in the form of people you could talk to for hours between the smell of campfire smoke.
I've been fishing a lot of stillwater lately as well, due to the aforementioned rain that's swelled up our rivers to near unfishable levels. I can't read the swirls the way I can a river, where I feel as though every rock and riffle and eddy whispers words between the roaring current for those who have eyes to hear. My stillwater adventures haven't borne as much fruit, but I've had a great time and began to learn this new language. The other day, I carved out a small sliver of one of the largest lakes in my area and began plying it with some lures without success. A soft rain came down and by sunset, the sky began to glow a shade of gold and a double rainbow appeared on the adjacent side of the lake. A heron glided icariously into the soft golden glow and my first thought was that the hanging gardens of Babylon or any other adjacent wonder of the ancient world could not have contained such a beauty. It was enough that I put my rods down in the soft gravel and waded out amongst the hydrilla and whispered thank you in the hopes that it would be heard.
That same day I harvested a new batch of grape leaves, replacing the two dozen or so that I had tried fermenting and ended up turning into a horridly moldy mess. These ones I blanched in boiling water and made a batch of dolma, which turned out a wonderfully delicious lemony bundle, that although wrapped with enough haggardness to make a Turkish grandmother weep, still held up. I'm a believer that cooking is a sacred act, sacred acts should be spontaneous, and that providing precise measurements is a quick way of ruining spontaneity so here is my unofficial recipe:
- Pick some wild grape leaves. This should be done in the spring so they're not too old, get ones that are sizable enough to wrap.
- Blanch the leaves in boiling water until they turn a rusty brown-green. Set them aside in that water.
- Saute ground meat with onions, garlic, olive oil, and whatever spices you desire. I used salt, black pepper, cumin, oregano, thyme, and cinnamon.
- Take that meat mixture and incorporate cooked rice and chopped walnuts and pine nuts. Squeeze in lots of lemon juice and season further to taste.
- Place a grape leaf vein-side up, dollop not too much filling, tuck the corners, and roll.
- Pile your dolma into a pan, drizzle with olive oil and more lemon juice, cover with lemon slices. Steam for about 10-15 minutes. Enjoy with desired company.
