1998. I am 15. I am in the back of a dusty blue minivan hurtling along the craggy and barren west coast of the Hawaiian island of Maui, and I am weeping. I am weeping at the first lush and vigorous strains of the Riverdance soundtrack. It is inexplicable (and hilarious, even then). I may have just spent the summer reading The Mists of Avalon. I may be irrepressibly desirous of finding a selfhood that rings true—an identity that fits. I am, you see, a redheaded, impossibly fair-skinned Jew living on a tropical island. I do not, exactly, fit in. But this? Fiddles and dancing and moss and mist and moors and redheads? This I can do. And so, I wept.
With the miracle of Maui’s microclimates, I didn’t have far to go. At nearly 2000 feet about sea level, I grew up surrounded by cattle ranch and vineyards, and just east of us rose the slopes of Haleakala, dotted with cattle and strung with low-lying lava rock walls and its own fair share of mists. I spent as much time as I could nestling myself into the landscape, scrambling under and over no trespassing signs and hiding behind guava trees that sprung, unlikely and insistent, from the mountainside.
Once I had my driver’s license, I could explore the Irish countryside ranch land a few miles further away, down Thompson Ranch Road. My best friend Tara and I would picnic on the weekends, praying we would never again be encircled by hungry, lowing cows as we once were (they just wanted grapes; who knew?).
This land, with its terraced rise and fall of emerald green, blushed in baby peaches and dusky rose grasses, summered in golden loquats and black raspberries, was all mountain and farm on one side and sweeping ocean views on the other. This land could have birthed Riverdance. It did not ask me to be anyone other than who I was.
In more recent years, I confessed loves here to boys who were nearly men, tucked flirtatiously into the roots of trees old enough to be our great grandparents. Here, I learned to walk slowly with my mother, as illness took away her movement. And here, too, I learned to walk with the new babes of old friends.
It is spring there now, on the southern slopes of Haleakala, where I learned to let myself be. Where I imagined I was more Riverdance than redheaded Hawaiian Jew. Where the land is as powerful as any name. My little friend Izzy, seven years old, found a four leaf clover there last week, just in time for St. Patrick’s Day.
And here, a hummus Jewy enough to boast tahini, Pacific Rim enough to be made from miso and edamame, and Irish enough to be green. Lush with cilantro and olive oil. Black sesame seeds. And every spring vegetable you can find.
Let your spring awakening—and your St. Patrick’s Day—be lavish. Get the recipe on today’s Intuitive Eating with Kale & Caramel.
MISO EDAMAME HUMMUS WITH SPRING CRUDITÉS.
Ingredients
- 10 ounces shelled edamame soybeans
- 1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon steam water
- 2 tablespoons olive oil
- 1 1/2 tablespoons miso paste
- 1 tablespoon tahini
- 1/2 teaspoon ume plum vinegar
- 2 teaspoons dehydrated onion
- 1/2 teaspoon ground coriander
- 1 teaspoon lime juice
- 2 tablespoons cilantro leaves
- olive oil to garnish
- black sesame seeds to garnish
- leaves cilantro to garnish
- flaky sea salt to garnish
- sliced cucumber carrot, radish, peas, and other crudités as desired
Instructions
- Fill a large stock pot with a metal steamer basket, and fill with water to just below the steamer. Cover, and bring water to a boil. Add shelled edamame and steam for 8-10 minutes, until tender.
- Remove from heat and place edamame plus 1/4 cup + 1 tablespoon steam water in blender or food processor. Add olive oil, miso, tahini, ume plum vinegar, dehydrated onion, coriander, and lime juice. Blend until smooth. Add 2 tablespoons cilantro leaves and pulse until they are small flecks.
- Transfer to serving dish and garnish with a drizzle of olive oil, cilantro leaves, black sesame seeds, and flaky sea salt. Serve with crudités as desired!
