March 2017: Kale + Pasta
I met David Johnson in 2007 or 2008, in that way that I can't precisely remember meeting so many good New Yorkers in my life. David was a gentle giant, as old or older than my father. Friends told me that he had lived downtown forever, that he was a peaceful gay man who lived alone, and always asked about folks' spiritual condition. I met him in the way I met so many sober people, in basements and cafeterias, passing by one another at tables at Cafe Orlin, nearly ten years ago. David had a quiet spiritual aura that never failed to make me feel safe, whenever we were in the same room. One of his favorite forms of community was to break bread with one another. That phrase, to break bread, has echoed in my heart every time I am able to fill my home with food and people and friends. If I can't remember how I met David, I clearly remember the day I learned that he had died. I was scrolling through Facebook when someone had posted a photo of him, and I knew. It was one of those bizarre moments of social media and hard news realized. I'd just seen David a few weeks earlier at the memorial for another gentle giant. I hadn't taken the time to say hello to him in the crowded hallway afterwards. I figured I'd see him the next time we were all gathered. I'm writing this now because David loved to cook. This I learned at his memorial at Judson Memorial Church, where so many communities converged to love the gentle giant. In my own life, I often fight with the constraints of time and identity: does an enjoyment of baking mean I'm not truly a writer? If I chose to sew on a day off does that mean I love books less? I know how absurd these questions look, but when they bang about my head, when I'm trying to schedule a morning of writing in between an evening of television or knitting or a SURJ meeting or falling asleep at 9:00 PM with a headache, the worry feels so valid. It's a superficial worry tied up in how I am perceived, that kind of thinking which lacks so much spiritual fitness, but is as vulnerable and human as it gets. I didn't know what relief from this worry looked like until sitting at David's memorial. The first person who spoke described David's kitchen. It was crowded with cookware, serving dishes, appliances. On his bedside table you could always find a tall stack of America's Test Kitchen magazines, companion to the back issues and cookbooks that filled the apartment. Living alone, this illustration was statement of how much David loved to cook for his friends, his fellows, his many communities. As the memorial continued, the wide breadth of David's life unfolded. He was an artist, and the church displayed dozens of his pastel portraits. He helped with the creation of housing for AIDS patients, organized safe sex and harm reduction kits, served as executive director of a community senior center, and was a pillar of his church congregation. This was in addition to how I knew him, as a regular face in the back row in those church basements and folding chair sanctuaries. At the end of the memorial, everyone was invited to take some of David's artwork from the hundreds of sketches piled high on a table. I looked through them quietly, marveling, until I found the one I was sure David would want me to have: a sketch of an older butch woman with close cropped hair, wearing a pink triangle pin. I think of David often because he is such a beacon of spiritual wellness to me, of what it means to be of service to everyone you meet. On Sunday, when a friend who is suffering asked to come over so she didn't have to be alone, I made tea and baked a pound cake and roasted chicken and potatoes. The next day, I made a carrot ginger soup, trying to be present with simple acts like chop carrots, grate ginger. And last night, I asked Emily to pick up three bunches of kale so we could make this recipe that I'd found in a magazine. It's a simple dish that involves wilting mountains of kale into a tight bundle of green, which is then sauteed with lots of garlic and red pepper flakes, and tossed with pasta, parmesan, good olive oil. The magazine page with the recipe is slightly splattered, with pepper in the binding, but I've put it on our cookbook shelf with the other good recipes. What if daily acts define us more than worried ambition? What if I return to writing in due time, with a sense of abundance, and not a sense of dread?
My final favorite thing about David. Whenever you asked him how he was, he would say, with total sincerity, "Better now that I've seen you." I find myself greeting friends and fellows this way recently, a genuine sentiment.
xoxo,
c
Kale + Pasta
adapted from Bon Appetit, January 2017
serves 4
3 large bunches of kale or 4 small bunches of kale
5 garlic cloves
1/4 c. good olive oil, plus more for drizzling
black pepper
12 oz. bucatini, spaghetti, or other pasta (the original recipe says long pasta, but we made this with penne and it's good)
parmesan (you could make this vegan and skip the parmesan - just make sure to use a super flavorful olive oil)
crushed red pepper flakes
salt
Bring a large pot of water to a boil. (I like to do this first since the water always takes so long to boil on my stove. I do this in a stock pot, but mostly because our sauce pans aren't large enough.) Trim kale leaves from stems and tear kale into 2" - 3" pieces. I know this is a crazy amount of kale, but trust me, it is all worth it. Meanwhile, mince garlic. Cook kale in boiling water for two minutes, until bright green, and drain in colander. Having tongs will make this recipe a breeze, but you can also fish out the kale with a ladle. Save the boiling water! You'll cook the pasta in it.
Add pasta to boiling water to cook. Press the kale against the side of the colander to wring as much water from it as possible (you can also use a dish towel or paper towel, but be careful of the hot water!) In a large saute pan, heat olive oil on low heat and add the minced garlic, stirring for one minute, until fragrant. (The original recipe says do not brown the garlic, but I have yet to be successful here. Also if you end up using 6 or 7 or 8 cloves of garlic, it's all delicious. I think I like this recipe because I have no sense of moderation.) Add the cooked kale and saute with garlic while pasta boils. Add cracked black pepper (like, a crazy amount), salt, a pinch of red pepper flakes, and, if you're feeling fancy, a little lemon zest. Turn off the heat if the garlic begins to burn. When pasta is ready, reserve one cup of the pasta water, then drain the pasta. Toss the pasta in the saute pan with the kale and garlic over low heat, adding a 1/4 cup of pasta water to coat everything. Sprinkle some parmesan (1/4 cup) and continue to toss, so the pasta water and the parmesan and the garlic become a slick and magical sauce. Serve with a good drizzle of olive oil, more parmesan, crushed red pepper flakes and sea salt.