We drove up from New York, past the river, past the old neighborhoods that used to be rich, past the forests. We drove to Massachusetts, a car full of strangers eating yogurt-covered snacks and sharing leftover potato salad. We got to Amherst early, we dawdled at CVS, we discovered the field of wild flowers next to the freshman quads at Hampshire. We remembered the weird plastic croak of the twin XL mattress. We remembered we were there to be together.
Every morning for one week, nineteen writers and I gathered in a morning-lit room of the Yiddish Book Center under the (dry-humored, huge-hearted, brilliant) tutelage of Josh Lambert, for TENT. We argued. We discussed Jewishness. We cried. We snapped. We tousled with the idea of a collective identity, a culture, a we. We ate absurd amounts of cafeteria food. I discovered a microwave and immediately made communal nachos. I picked wildflowers, ate the bud of an ox eye daisy, kept lupine in my dorm room.
When we weren’t arguing and crying and obsessing over the newness of each other, we went into the fields beyond Hampshire, where perhaps we should not have gone. We got lost and saw tracks with deep claws (a bear, perhaps?) and found one of our own at the edge of the forest, writing. We drank light from the dense layers of leaves.
Once we got through the woods, we ate ice cream at Flayvors of Cook Farm, petted the cows, learned that baby calves will suckle on human hands with the suction force of approximately one thousand black holes. We tried Hadley Grass (asparagus!) ice cream, we discovered electric fences work on humans and animals, we gave our minds room to accept the possibility of newness.
We plotted a homemade challah mission with the sole assistance of a college dorm kitchen, a fork, a cup, and a bowl. That afternoon, we wandered into the Smith College special collections room unprepared for the unburdening of literary history we were about to experience. We pored over Sylvia Plath’s dictionary. We clacked awkwardly on her typewriter. I fumbled with the knowledge that two women like Plath and Woolf could be so full of life and so determined to die. (A deep dive into that here.)
Before shabbat, we skipped breakfast to fork blend challah dough, kneaded it on counters, left it to rise on my dorm-room desk in the second-story heat.
picture by Erika Jo Brown
At lunch, we punched down the over-risen dough and braided two round loaves to feed us all. We sprinkled it with sea salt and fennel seed and drizzled it with honey. That night, having blessed the challah in a circle of people knowing and not knowing the prayers, knowing and not knowing what they believed, we tore into the bread with our hands. It was gone in minutes.
In the morning, we brunched at Bread & Butter and, bellies heavy with everything bagels and Liège waffles, planted ourselves in the green wash of Puffers Pond. We dared each other to go deeper, swimming past the point where cold held us back. I stayed under for longer than I should have. I floated. I let the water convince me I could forget everything but its urgency.
When we reconvened, Rita gave me a book of Emily Dickinson’s recipes: Portrait of the Poet as Cook. I held it to my chest and kept it on my lap through seminar. I didn’t want it far from me. Later, after we read our work to each other, and cried, and forewent snapping for full-fledged clapping and hollering and yelping, after the sky came to life with color, we gathered around a bonfire. We took turns going into the woods for dry kindling. We took turns stripping young branches for s’mores sticks. We took turns laughing and feeling and talking about books or just being quiet.
At home in California, I leaf through the Dickinson, eager for a recipe to make my own. It’s the one almost all the way at the back that catches me. Wine jelly. Made with canned plums and gelatin and wine. Pure, simple summer. I imagine it with fresh plums and vanilla bean and honey.
An easy, seasonal compote, bright with fresh plum and rich with vanilla. Served over a sweet little pillow of chamomile infused vanilla bean whipped cream. Something I imagine Dickinson would have enjoyed, perhaps after picking chamomile straight from her garden.
The compote comes out tangy, bright, full of summer sun and a deep red enhanced by the wine. The chamomile whip is light and mellow, an easy companion for the intensity of fruit in its full expression.
Serve this as an easy summer dessert, or eat the compote on toast, with yogurt, or over ice cream. Making it, I wish (again) I’d had the time to go to Dickinson’s home or her grave, both of which were just minutes away. Having not, I know there is something to return for, in this part of the country where the beauty of the land is matched by its depth of history.
At home, I sit and read. I fight a post-travel cold. I eat spoonfuls of compote straight from the jar. I consider nibbling fresh chamomile. I write.
The only thing missing is the we.
EMILY DICKINSON’S RED WINE PLUM COMPOTE WITH CHAMOMILE VANILLA BEAN CREAM
Ingredients
red wine plum compote (heavily adapted from Profile of the Poet as Cook)
- 3 cups red or black plums washed, pitted, and sliced (about 1 ½ , sliced)
- 3-4 tablespoons honey (to taste depending on sweetness of fruit and wine)
- ¼ cup sweet red wine like malbec
- ¼ teaspoon vanilla bean paste or ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
chamomile vanilla bean whip
- 1 cup heavy whipping cream divided
- 2-3 tablespoons fresh or dried chamomile blossoms
- ¼ teaspoon vanilla bean paste or ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- 2 tablespoons honey
garnish
- honey comb or honey to drizzle optional
- fresh chamomile flowers optional
Instructions
- In a small saucepan, heat ¼ cup whipping cream and fresh or dried chamomile blossoms over medium flame. Bring to a simmer, then remove from heat and let steep while you make the compote.
- In a medium non-reactive saucepan, place sliced plums, honey, wine, and vanilla bean. Bring to a simmer over medium-high flame, then reduce heat to low and continue to simmer, stirring occasionally, until much of the liquid has evaporated and what remains has thickened slightly. Let cool completely.
- Strain the chamomile-infused cream, discarding the blossoms, into a large mixing bowl, and add the remaining ¾ cup cream, vanilla bean, and honey. Whip until soft peaks form. Set aside.
- When compote has cooled, serve with chamomile vanilla bean cream, and garnish with honey comb or honey and fresh chamomile flowers, if you have them.
