Simple pleasures for body, mind and spirit

Not My Mom’s Harvard Beets … green tea with pomegranate … featured poet, Myra Schneider

Not My Mom’s Harvard Beets … green tea with pomegranate … featured poet, Myra Schneider

My mom loved Harvard beets, which she prepared using canned beets.  Actually, not bad, but I always have to play with my food and how wonderful to play with fresh sweet and earthy jewel-toned beets.

It’s too hot to use the stove or oven, so I microwaved the beets this evening, setting the scrubbed whole beets in a covered dish with a few spoons of water.  Depending on the size, they’re done in 10-15 minutes. Once cooked, it’s easy to rub skin off under cold water and then dice the beets into a serving dish to cool while adding delicate slivers of red onion.

Dressing: 1/4 cup apple cider vinegar, 3/4 olive oil, 2 teaspoons Dijon mustard or to taste, salt to taste. Whisk together in a small bowl and use to lightly dress the beets and some greens. Neither should be swimming in the dressing. Layer the beets over the greens and top with crumbled blue cheese or feta.

A fruity Green Tea with Pomegranate seems to go well, iced in this case with a spritz of lemon.


And now, today’s featured poet, the award-wining Myra Schneider …

ROOT VEGETABLE STEW

When dark nights eat up afternoons
I sweat onions in sunflower oil,
weigh out carrots, a swede,
and tapering baby parsnips
with old-age skins on flesh
that fattened underneath the light
in a cradling of clay, grit, stones.

I take the swede, a misshapen globe
marred with scars, cut it in two.
The apricot bulk makes my head
hum with summer. I slice up
the snow-white parsnips, then tip
lentils, seeds of a butterfly-
petalled plant, into the pan.

Opening the door to throw peelings
in a pail, I bump into snouting cold.
It smells of woodsmoke, bites
as I stare at the park bristled
with black. Frost is stiffening leaves,
grasses, and I feel myself woven
to this land’s Saxon past when winter

was a giant who trampled crops in fields,
snuffed breath with icicle fingers –
though this was not the country
of my forbears, though rootlessness
was a wound I bore till turned thirty,
I was warmed enough by love
to put down roots in myself.

When chill sinks its teeth in my ribs,
I retreat to the stove, dip a spoon.
The heat-swollen lentils are melting
among the hulking vegetables,
and yellowbrown as November woods.
I add lemon and fried spices,
stir them in, ladle the stew.

© Myra Schneider (Shared here with Myra’s permission)

Myra Schneider’s latest and recent books are Persephone in Finsbury Park (SLP), The Door to Colour (Enitharmon); What Women Want(SLP). More at Myra Schneider website where you can also order Myra’s books.

HERE is a wonderful interview with Myra on the occasion of her 80th birthday earlier this year. Who wouldn’t want to gather and savor the voice of so much experience: thirteen collections of poetry, children’s books, author of Writing My Way Through Cancer and, with John Killick, Writing Yourself: Transforming Personal Material. Myra has collaborated on more anthologies than I can count, is a poetry coach and champion of women poets, a consultant to Second Light Network of Women Poets and a poetry editor.  Myra’s professional life seems like it is and always has been quite full and busy. Yet along the way – even when coping with catastrophic illness – Myra is able to take a breath, pick up her pen and inspire.

 



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