This isn’t a letter from the editor per se, but it is an answer to a call— a promise I made myself in 2022—to say yes to more writing opportunities, especially for the Natural Enquirer. And to the call I put out to all the contributors for this issue: what’s the rush?

Yes, wow, hi. It’s all really flying now. Time, that is. And the deadline is fast approaching. So let’s get straight to it—summer dreams, summer themes. Make them last, won’t you?

Ways to Savor Summer: this, because it is all really flying now, and don’t you wish we could slow it down, especially during the summer? Are there lovely ways COVID taught you to move slower? How do you soak it all up? Me, I’m thinking of Charcuterie as Meditation, with local cheese and berries, of course.
Bounty of the County: this, because where else could you possibly want to be than here? We have it alllllll. Fresh produce, cheese, flowers, mountains, rivers… you know the spiel. We know it, but maybe sometimes we forget it. So, in a time when inflation is on the rise, gas prices are bananas, why pay more for anything not Skagit – food, fun, or otherwise? Me, I’ll be biking to pick up my Dear Table CSA every Tuesday at Viva Farms in Burlington, with Huxley the Executive Office Dog in tow.

Anyway, we live in a magical place. Let’s rave about it —more, again, and always! Per usjz, take the prompt anywhichway you please.

Huxley, the Executive Office Dog on his way to Dear Table Farm.

So, here I am, imploring you to reflect on the same, hopefully while enjoying meats, cheeses, and fine wine from the Co-op. Because that really is how I’m watching the world turn. Even the aforementioned CSA ended up running behind because of the mere five hours of 70°+ weather we saw in the month of May. I can wait.

And while I’m waiting, I will go everywhere and nowhere at once. Sounds dreamy, yes? Join me, if you please. All a’board!

I have a friend who builds the most extravagant charcuterie boards. Super Bowl, Halloween, girls’ night, whatever the occasion, there will be a board. And there will be wine. She is the queen of playful mispronunciation and calls charcuterie “choo-choocheries,” like the sound a train makes. Chew, chew, like the sound your mouth makes when you’re savoring each and every bite. Choo-choo, chew, chew. Whenever I’m enjoying a board, I’m transported to her, and then, to anywhere else my imagination pleases—a little frontal lobe locomotion.

Meditation, they say, is about settling into your sitz bones, breathing deep, and watching thoughts come and go like ships or sheep or something. That works. But what they don’t say, is that sitting still is just one of many forms of meditation. Running, swimming, gardening, gerund-ing—just about any i-n-g that connects you to yourself, your mind, and your surroundings. That includes noticing; it is an art, after all. Annie Dillard would agree and suggest you make a pilgrimage to your local creek, or the Magic Skagit if you’d rather, just to see what you can see. I also agree, and would suggest heading to your kitchen table, just to taste what you can taste because I do believe eating can be meditative. Nostalgic. Transcendental, even.

I believe this because I once attended a weekend retreat on Whidbey Island, a little too woo-woo for me, the average bear, but in the end, it changed me. It was a connection to people, place, and thing, or rather, food. One of the retreat sessions was lunch. Nothing new, but something out of the ordinary. Thirteen of us sat down to share a meal, no talking allowed—not out of militant rigidity, but out of reverence for the food: the land that produced it (behind me); the hands that grew it (sitting next to me); the hands that prepared it (sitting across from me). And then we shut our eyes, to dig in and take the time to actually taste the green soup in front of us.

I started to think about the pitch-black dining experiences people pay extra for, just so they can fumble around in the dark for a fork and then be amazed at their heightened sense of taste. Closing your eyes is free. It made me think of blindness and how its silver lining is the superhuman intensity of all the other senses. No meal would go unnoticed. It made me think of the infamous and ultimate ultimatum: would you rather be blind or deaf? As if taste and touch are small potatoes. Which makes me think about Pirates of the Caribbean—ghosts haunting seaports to quench an unquenchable thirst and satiate an unending hunger: drinking without drunkenness, touching without feeling. An emptiness unrelenting.

So, to eat without tasting? That makes me think of how we eat: mindlessly and senselessly on our way out the door, behind the wheel, dropping crumbs in the cracks of the keyboard. It also reminds me of COVID. Early in 2020, I cooked myself a “fancy” meal: peppered black cod, coconut rice, and a wilted green, I think. I can’t quite remember, because none of it tasted like anything. A mouthful of ash.

At first, I thought it was an added layer of winter depression or my hit-or-miss cooking, but it persisted. For the next ten days, I proceeded to eat anything and everything, extra salt, extra sugar, and throw in all the onions while you’re at it (I despise onions), because all I wanted was to taste my food. Nothing doing. Only after mentioning it to my father did he relay that sudden loss of taste was one of COVID’s strange and unexpected symptoms. Ten days and ten pounds later, I can tell you that I’d almost certainly rather be blind. And deaf.

When we the thirteen opened our eyes, our expressions said it all: we had just communed over the best soup we’d ever eaten, not because it was the best soup (and not because it wasn’t), but because we had noticed every flavor, every temperature, every texture. Sip, sip. Chew, chew. We could taste its greenness.

We cleared our plates, the table and joined hands around the chef in a moment of gratitude. We bowed, we worshipped, the grower fell to his knees. There wasn’t a dry eye in the room because the appreciation for a single bowl of soup was so overwhelming.

Food deserves every ounce of happy tears. And taste buds? Don’t forget about those guys. They’re your best friends, and they can transport you anywhere, anytime, even if you’re going nowhere. Chew, chew, choo-choo.

Choo-choocherie. Charcuterie, as meditation—a practice in mindfulness, forcing you to slow down and connect to your thoughts and your surroundings, simply by tasting every bite. There should be no more than 12 chews per minute. With that kind of max CPM, you’re in for a Bourdanian experience, no gas money required. Close your eyes, if you dare.

Creating your own charcuterie is as simple as asking yourself what you like, then building your board from there: meat, cheese, nuts, crackers, bread, something pickled, something fruity. And if you dabble, a bottle of wine. The Co-op has a world of choices.

Once you’ve arranged your picks (which can be zen-like too), it is time. Breathe in. Begin.

I start with a little game of matchmaker. I’ll make you a match. And then I’ll make you another. A crispy cracker or chewy bread, crunchy mustard, creamy cheese. Yes, creamy cheese. Should I pair aged gouda with speck or spicy coppa? Now wash it down with bubbles. Always bubbles, at least for me. Then nibble a gherkin like a rabbit to a carrot, a beaver to a tree—your two front teeth doing all the work. Pop in a sweety drop! An explosion of tiny pepper flavor. Layer the flavors, make all the matches, then deconstruct to enjoy each piece as is.

It doesn’t take but a few combinations of cracker stacks to appreciate the complexity of a single green grape: its thin skin and squeaky flesh. Chew the seeds. Maybe swallow them, too – you’ll grow a vineyard out your ears. How I wish that parental warning came true. More bubbles, and another bite, please… to the next flavor destination.

Perhaps to Italy with Olli Salumeria Toscano Fennel Pollen Salami. Although, instead of the Italian countryside, it brings me back to Godfather’s Pizza on Riverside Drive, where I used to dare my dad to eat an entire slice of sausage pizza—a regrettable, but hilarious move. Giggly fun.

Something fruity? It can be dried and chewy, preserved and sweet, or fresh and succulent. I recently discovered the Matiz Raw Apricot Demi-luna. That means half-moon, and it’s most certainly waning. It’s a 100% natural raw fruit bar from the hilly terrain of La Vera in the Spanish region of Extremadura made with Spanish apricots and rich Marcona almonds, a sweet-tooth satisfier that pairs oh-so-well with cheese.

When it comes to preserves, Girl Meets Dirt can’t be beat. Her name is Audra and you can find her in the San Juan Islands talking about “how the salty island breezes create their own kind of fruit alchemy,” handcrafting tiny batches of jam, shrubs, and cutting preserves.

Her Vanilla Plum Medley Spoon Preserves, as the name suggests, blends exotic vanilla bean and heirloom plums from old-world orchards on Orcas “for a bit of a nuanced pucker.” Oh to be a sugar plum fairy in the Salish Sea!

And like there’s never a girls’ night without a choo-choocherie, I never build a board without fresh fruit, especially this time of year. My buds know no better taste than a perfectly ripe Skagit Valley strawberry.

A succulent slice reveals a star shape with a crystal-like interior, a ruby red geode. Local gems named after local mountains, and just like that, I’ve summited Shuksan, the only variety of strawberry I planted this year. I can’t wait for June when the blooms turn to berries—ultimate fruition.

Now, off to Cheese Island, the official and endearing term for the Co-op’s cheese cases. If you’ve spent any time there, you’ll know it’s full of treasure, and it’s not even buried. A few trips around the island leads to miles of smiles. Cheesy, I know.

Speaking of trips, Cypress Grove PsycheDillic is another favorite. It’s a pickley, dill-icious fresh goat cheese I like to pair with Raincoast Crisps Cranberry and Hazelnut Crackers for a dill-ightful bite full of all the textures at once.

What else? A big ol’ blob o’ burrata – black truffle, because it’s fancy and my memory always floats back to a glorious evening of truffle hunting in the heart of Italy with a dog named Napo. In Italy, they use dogs instead of pigs, because well, pigs eat the truffles. It’s also fun to imagine hurdling over the Atlantic in a cheesy orb – a UFO on its way to Umbria.

Leyden, or komijnekaas in Dutch, is cumin cheese and another childhood favorite, but the caraway seeds and cumin conjure strong flavors of masala dishes and visions of packed spice markets. Swiss cheese might as well be a slice of Mexico; it’s how the Yucatan Peninsula is described with its thousands of cenotes, water-filled caves just below the Earth’s crust where I learned to scuba dive.

A creamy cheese with a red wine rind—Drunken Goat. Am I that? I did just scale Shuksan.

Where am I?

Even the geography of the human tongue makes a difference. Picture it as a map, each region with its own specialty: sweet, sour, salty, bitter, umami. The best part is, the borders are close, a lot like the Four Corners; you can experience each one at a time or all at once. I tend to chew on the right side of my mouth, so simply switching sides or turning it into a whole mouth experience, changes the flavor profile. The Spanish Marcona almond is salty then sweet, a Bow Hill Blueberry is sweet then tart, then sweet again.

Anytime I hear a cork pop, I exclaim, “Such sweet music to my ears!” A drum cymbal, a rocket to the moon! Whatever your beverage, noticing the sound it makes when it opens, is a trip in itself. Click-pop! Fresh hop, Diet Coke, a cheers to my favorite IPA—from Buoy Beer Company in Astoria, Oregon. Best believe I’m imagining a solid eight seconds on that beacon of the sea.

After that wild ride, and nearing the end of the choo-choocherie, it’s nice to take it home with something familiar: a slice of Co-op petite kalamata sourdough and a chunk of Beecher’s Flagship. I’ll always save the best bite for last. So no, it’s not a traditional form of meditation, being here while dreaming of elsewhere, but it is a way to slow down, savor summer, and connect to self and place. What a beautiful thing, to enjoy a charcuterie on my porch and have each element take me away, and I guess that’s my point: we have it all. At the Co-op. In Skagit. And eating in this way is not a yearning for, but an appreciation of what’s right in front of us.

Summer, One Bite at a Time