My Aunt Wendy is a poet and a private investigator. When I was young, our time together mostly consisted of giggling loudly and uncontrollably in completely inappropriate places: staid country club lounges in South Bend, Indiana, formal dinner parties, otherwise stilted family reunion picture-taking sessions. We share an eye and an ear for the absurd that simultaneously unites the two of us and ostracizes us from everyone else: Our hilarity lived inside a world of its own, giddy, confinement.
As I grew older, hilarity came less frequently. Instead, we both sat with death, as Wendy was with my father and me in the days before and the evening of my mother’s death. That night, a full moon, we bore witness to the only thing more absurd than all the rest of our silly lives: Life’s dissolution, the passing of breath into nothingness. Even after the dying, though, we laughed. Living, even—or especially—after death, was still ridiculously strange.
This summer, from the verdant homestead she and her partner Rod tend in the tiny town of Sooke on Vancouver Island, she called with a poem for my birthday. The call started with a recipe, though.
Take three apples from the clothesline tree, six Italian plums—prune plums, you know, a cup of blueberries, a cup of blackberries. Makes the best compote ever. Simmer. Just a little bit of honey.
Given my noticeable dearth of clothesline apple trees, I made do with slightly blemished farmers market plums (not Italian, forgive me, Aunt Wendy), berries, Whole Foods apples, and a handful of nearly overripe figs. Late summer compote. A splash of vanilla. Honey. A tiny flurry of sea salt to make everything else sweeter.
After the first recipe, there was another, though non-edible: A poem of Wendy’s that she’d forgotten until someone told her they’d used it at a funeral last week. Here it is:
RECIPE
Mistrust no one who offers you
water from a well, a songbird’s feather,
something that’s been mended twice.
Always travel lighter than the heart
Lorna Crozier, “Packing for the Future: Instructions”
Watch.
Watch the wild roses,
the rosehips,
the maples’ new leaves,
the twinned spruce,
the gilded broom,
the elderberry’s ruby bloom.
Mistrust no one who offers you
this pallet of light. Listen.
Listen to the breathing night
and the mourning birds:
the wild canaries, the extravagant ravens,
the hawks on the wind
and the gulls crying
on the broken Strait: hear the clear
water from a well, a songbird’s feather.
Sing.
Sing old songs into the silver fog,
songs of love and sunrise:
try some icy Gershwin,
a Bach cantata,
Verdi’s La Traviata.
Wrap yourself in a woven cape,
something that’s been mended twice.
And dance.
Dance anywhere.
a quick tarantella, a broken tango
in the middle of the road ;
on a crowded sidewalk
find a stranger and waltz.
Watch, listen, sing and dance.
Always travel lighter than the heart.
When she re-read it, she said, she realized it was for me, for this birthday—its last stanza about travel and lightness and dancing with strangers.
It’s for your trip to Italy. For dancing. The poem and its buoyancy were a small benediction of freedom, its words an invitation back into that bubble of levity Wendy and I shared so often when I was young. Though I am technically another year older, growing up in the wake of death has felt more like a fight to regain youth than a march towards aging.
I’m sure at some point the pattern will reverse itself again, but for now, I am content with the urgency of finding levity no matter the weight of the heart, the importance of dancing. I am making music again, playing a little bit every day on the piano I’ve been given for safekeeping. I am learning bits and pieces of Italian. And this time Monday morning, I will be 6,327 miles from home.
I leave for Italy on Sunday, and I am so, purely excited. I am ready for it all. Well water, light, cantatas, dancing.
Until then, there will be late summer compote with thick, cool plain yogurt and a crumbly olive oil and walnut granola crumbly like a cookie. This granola was inspired by and adapted from my brilliant friend Renee’s site Will Frolic for Food—instead of buckwheat, oats and walnuts; instead of coconut oil, olive for an extra savory tang; a hit of flaky salt; extra vanilla. Perfect for traveling lighter than the heart.
LATE SUMMER FRUIT COMPOTE YOGURT BOWLS WITH OLIVE OIL GRANOLA.
Ingredients
compote
- 5 plums
- 4 figs
- 3 apples
- 1 cup blackberries
- 1 cup blueberries
- 2 tablespoons honey
- ½ teaspoon vanilla
- 2 pinches sea salt
olive oil granola (adapted from Will Frolic For Food)
- 1 ½ cups sunflower seeds
- ¾ cup rolled oats
- ¾ cup chopped raw walnuts
- ½ teaspoon ground cinnamon
- ¼ cup olive oil
- ¼ cup maple syrup
- ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract
- ¼ teaspoon course sea salt or crushed flaky sea salt
Instructions
Make the compote.
- Place fruit in a medium saucepan and cook covered over medium heat until the fruit comes to a boil, 12-15 minutes. Reduce heat to low and continue to cook, covered, as compote simmers. Stir occasionally to ensure nothing is sticking to the bottom. After 35-40 minutes, or when apples are completely soft, add honey, vanilla, and sea salt, and stir vigorously to break down fruit. Cook uncovered, another 8-10 minutes. Remove from heat and transfer to clean, air tight jars. Seal and let cool, then refrigerate. Will keep a few weeks in the fridge.
Make the granola.
- Preheat oven to 350º Line a large baking sheet with parchment paper. Place the sunflower seeds, rolled oats, walnuts, and cinnamon in a food processor or blender and blend until you have a coarse, sandy mixture. With the processor still running, add the olive oil, maple syrup, and vanilla. Blend until the mixture starts to come together and pulls away from the container. Transfer to a bowl and stir in sea salt.
- Press granola mixture into an even ¼-inch thick layer on the baking sheet. Bake 18-20 minutes, until edges are golden brown. Let cool completely on a wire rack, then break into pieces.
